HIS  SOUL  GOES 
MARCHING  ON 


MARY  RAYMOND  SHIPMAN  ANDREWS 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE" 


BY  MARY  R.  S.  ANDREWS 

JOT  IN  THE  MORNING 

THE  ETERNAL  FEMININE 

AUGUST  FIRST 

THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

THE  MILITANTS 

BOB  AND  THE  GUIDES 

CROSSES  OF  WAR  (Poems) 

HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

HER  COUNTRY 

OLD  GLORY 

THE  COUNSEL  ASSIGNED 

THE  COURAGE  OF  THE  COMMONPLACE 

THE  LIFTED  BANDAGE 

THE  PERFECT  TRIBUTE 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 


"IT    IS    LITTLE    MATTER    WHETHER    ONE    MAN    FAILS    OR    SUC 
CEEDS    .    .    .    BUT    THE    CAUSE    SHALL   NOT    FAIL, 
FOR    IT    IS    THE    CAUSE    OF    HUMANITY  " 


HIS  SOUL 
GOES  MARCHING  ON 


BY 
Mary  Raymond  Shipman  Andrews 

Author  of  "The  Perfect  Tribute" 


NEW  YORK 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
1922 


Copyright,  1922,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
Published  March,  1922 


Copyright,  1921,  by  The  International  Magazine  Co. 


PRINTED  AT 

THE   SCRIBNER   PRESS 

NEW  YORK,  U.  S.  A. 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MAECHING  ON 


20J240O3 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

IT  was  the  summer  of  the  year  1912.  A 
special  train  travelling  on  a  political 
campaign  trip  was  rushing,  toward  dusk, 
through  a  Western  State.  Lamps  burned  in 
little  farmhouses  as  the  cars  roared  by,  and, 
as  the  secretary  of  the  great  man  looked  out, 
there  in  the  lighted  doorway  of  a  lonely 
dwelling  stood  a  group,  the  family,  waiting 
to  see  the  train  pass,  waving  a  flag.  A  mile 
farther  and  another  farmhouse  flashed,  an 
other  little  group  saluted  the  flying  train  and 
the  man  it  carried,  though  they  knew  well 
that  he  would  not  see  them  nor  they  him. 
On  through  the  night,  and  in  the  gray  of  the 
morning,  the  people  were  up  along  the  way, 
these  friends  whom  he  never  saw  and  never 
was  to  see,  one  loyal  little  company  after 
another,  giving  him  their  benediction. 
[3] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

It  was  at  the  breakfast-table  that  the  young 
secretary  made  his  suggestion.  "Because  of 
cutting  out  Wellsville  and  Cherokee  and  the 
places  between,  sir,"  the  secretary  said, 
"we're  now  doing  the  hypoteneuse  of  a 
triangle.  That  puts  us  a  day  ahead  of  sched 
ule." 

Keen  eyes  shot  back  a  glance  like  a  blow; 
the  brows  drew  and  the  jaws  clamped  as  if 
the  entire  force  of  brain  were  bent  to  con 
sider  this  statement. 

The  secretary  went  on.  "If  we  could 
side-track  the  train  somewhere  in  the  coun- 
try-  -" 

A  clenched  fist  came  down  with  a  whack. 
"  Good  for  you,  Roly ! "  the  personage  cried 
out,  and  the  tense  face  beamed.  "Great !  I 
could  go  for  a  tramp  and  scramble  over  some 
of  this  scenery.  Simply  immense !  I  was  won 
dering  how  I  could  worry  along  another  day 
without  exercise."  He  turned  and  stared 
through  the  car  window  at  the  flying  land 
scape.  "It's  really  very  nice  country,"  he 
[41 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

said,  and  struck  the  breakfast-table  another 
friendly  blow,  as  it  might  be  out  of  pure  high 
spirits.  "Get  them  to  shunt  us  off  some 
where  in  the  wilds  where  there  won't  be 
fussiness  and  crowds.  You  go  ahead  and  ar 
range  that,  Holy." 

At  about  the  hour  when  the  secretary  had 
looked  out  upon  the  darkening  country  and 
watched,  with  a  stir  of  emotion,  the  tribute 
of  the  plain  people,  Americans  all,  waiting 
through  the  long  night  at  their  doors  to  do 
honor  to  the  mere  flashing  past  of  the  train 
which  bore  the  greatest  American — at  about 
that  hour,  miles  farther  along  the  train's 
route,  in  a  country  town,  a  red-headed  boy 
who  wore  spectacles  was  much  occupied.  He 
sprawled  over  the  floor  of  a  living-room 
where  there  was  worn  furniture  and  many 
books;  he  was  surrounded  by  and  absorbed 
in  fishing-tackle;  about  him  lay  a  light  rod  in 
sections,  reels,  coils  of  line,  a  book  of  flies, 
all  old  and  much  used,  but  all,  it  might  be 
seen  as  he  touched  one  or  the  other,  objects  of 
[5] 


SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

reverence.  Across  the  room,  by  a  table  where 
a  light  burned  and  magazines  were  piled,  a 
man  and  a  woman  talked.  Their  faces  were 
grave. 

"It's  no  small  decision,"  the  woman  spoke. 

The  man  recapitulated.  "If  I  can't  pay 
the  debts  I  can't  go  back  to  Washington. 
And  I've  done  well  in  the  House,  Annie. 
There's  a  career  before  me.  The  bills  I'm 
hoping  to  get  passed — they're  important  to 
the  country.  I  want  to  put  them  through, 
Annie,  for  their  own  usefulness — for  the  peo 
ple.  It  isn't  mere  selfishness." 

The  woman  reflected.  "Five  thousand  dol 
lars,"  she  said. 

"Yes,"  the  man  caught  her  up  eagerly. 
"Five  thousand.  Enough  to  pay  all  our  debts 
and  start  us  straight  again.  And  what  is  it 
I've  got  to  do — a  mere  nothing  !" 

"Is  it  nothing?"  the  woman  asked.  "Isn't 
it  a  good  deal  to  sell  your  honor?" 

"Don't  talk  cant,"  the  man  threw  back. 
"Edwin  Pierce  wants  his  boy  to  go  to  West 
[6] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

Point.  I'm  a  Congressman;  it's  worth  five 
thousand  dollars  to  him  if  I  give  the  boy  the 
nomination.  Why  not  young  Eddie  Pierce  as 
well  as  some  other  boy  ?  Edwin  Pierce  is  roll 
ing  in  millions.  Five  thousand  means  nothing 
to  him.  But  it  means  a  lot  to  us." 

The  woman  flung  forward  and  clasped  his 
arm  with  passion.  "Tom,  don't!  Don't!  It's 
dishonest.  Your  name's  clean.  Isn't  that 
worth  five  thousand  dollars?  You're  an  of 
ficial  of  the  nation.  You'd  lower  the  flag.  Is 
all  of  Edwin  Pierce 's  money  worth  that  ? 
Young  Eddie  Pierce  is  a  good-for-nothing 
You  know  he'd  never  make  a  fit  officer.  It's 
our  honesty — mine  as  well  as  yours — Jim- 
mie's.  You  haven't  any  right  to  sell  our 
honor,  Jimmie's  and  mine." 

His  face  darkened.  "As  if  I  wasn't  doing 
it  for  you  and  Jimmie  !  It's  his  future — what 
I  can  do  for  him  if  I  make  a  name.  You  can't 
see  that  I'm  straining  this  point  for  you,  and 
for  the  boy's  future." 

The    boy    on    the    floor,    unnoticed,    had 
[7] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

dropped  the  reel  which  he  had  been  studying 
with  careful  tenderness,  and  for  the  last 
minute  had  listened,  wide-eyed.  "For  the 
boy's  future,"  his  father  ended.  And  the  boy 
tossed  up  his  red  head.  "I  don't  want  any 
future,"  he  stated,  "if  it's  dishonest,  like 
mother  says." 

"You  see,  Annie,"  the  man  threw  into  the 
startled  silence.  "You're  setting  the  child  to 
condemn  his  father." 

With  that  the  big  lad  was  upon  him,  his 
arm  around  his  father's  neck.  "Aw  gee — no, 
dad!"  he  remonstrated.  "7  don't  condemn 
you,  dad.  No.  Mother  doesn't,  either." 

The  man  smiled  up  at  the  sturdy  young 
ster.  "Do  you  love  me,  Jimmie  ?"  he  asked,  a 
bit  brokenly. 

"Oh,  I  do!"  was  flung  back  fervently. 
"But,  dad,  mother  knows  if  it's  wrong.  It's 
usually  best  to  do  what  mother  says." 

The  man's  hand  reached  out  and  enclosed 
the  woman's  as  they  laughed  together.  "It 
usually  is,"  he  agreed,  "but  yet — go  back  to 
[8] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

the  fishing-tackle,  Jimmie.  Look  out  you 
don't  lose  that  multiplying  reel  to-morrow, 
young  man,  or  break  the  rod.  That's  my  pet 
old  reel,  and  it's  a  Leonard  rod.  I  couldn't 
afford  to  replace  either  now."  He  sighed. 
"Annie,  we'll  sleep  over  it.  I'm  afraid  I've 
got  to  do  it.  I've  got  to  go  back  to  Washing 
ton.  The  whole  future  of  all  of  us  lies  that 
way." 

"We  won't  discuss  it  to-night,  Tom,"  the 
woman  said.  "Come  out  in  the  garden.  The 
peonies  are  in  bloom." 

The  red-headed  boy,  left  alone  on  the  floor 
with  his  tackle,  pondered. 

It  happened,  as  set  forth  above,  that  of  a 
Saturday  afternoon  in  1912  a  special  train 
bearing  distinguished  freight  was  laid  by, 
while  no  one  in  the  State  of  Kansas  was 
aware,  on  the  tracks  outside  a  country  sta 
tion.  And  with  that  the  great  man  was  sud 
denly  nowhere  to  be  found;  only  the  white- 
jacketed  negro  porter  reported: 
[9] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

"I  see  him  makin'  tracks  down  de  road  by 
de  woods,  sah,  over  yander,  when  we  wa'n't 
mo'n  come  to  a  stop,"  reported  the  porter. 

And  the  secretary  and  the  others  laughed. 
"He  wanted  to  get  off  alone,"  they  decided. 

Down  the  road  by  the  woods  over  yonder, 
where  the  vigorous  figure  had  disappeared, 
a  stream  ran,  following  the  highway,  talking 
over  shallows,  declaiming  hoarse,  sweet  senti 
ments  around  boulders;  smiling  and  brown 
and  sun-spotted,  halting  in  pools  where  fish 
lay.  Till  it  crossed  the  road  under  a  rustic 
bridge,  and  there,  shady  but  with  shaking 
rifts  of  sunlight,  widened  into  its  biggest  pool. 
White  foam  tumbled  into  it  from  a  rapid, 
and  a  rock  stood  in  the  middle,  and  on  the 
rock  was  a  red-headed  boy  who  wore  spec 
tacles,  fishing. 

The  personage,  arresting  his  headlong  flight 
at  the  bridge,  looked  down  and  saw  him; 
likely  there  was  no  more  finished  expert  in 
boys  in  America  than  the  personage.  This 
one  did  not  notice  the  observer.  His  trousers, 

[10] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

of  a  home-made  model,  were  rolled  above  the 
knees  and  one  dangling  bare  foot  wiggled 
toes  in  and  out  of  the  water.  He  stuck  his 
tongue,  also,  in  and  out,  as  he  drew  in  and 
proceeded  to  untangle  the  mess  into  which 
he  had  managed  to  involve,  by  one  unhappy 
cast,  his  leader.  For  the  boy  was  fishing  with 
flies;  a  swift  gray  glance,  which  missed  few 
things,  took  in  that  fact  with  surprise.  Little 
country  lads  mostly  wield  a  pole,  not  a  four- 
ounce  rod,  such  as  this  boy's,  and  mostly 
cast  a  hook  of  brutality,  baited  with  wrig 
gling  worm,  into  their  pools  of  adventure. 
By  a  single  leap  of  intuition  there  was  a 
father  constructed  for  this  boy,  of  finer  clay 
than  common  fathers  in  the  up-country  of 
the  West,  a  father  who  knew  a  rod  from  a 
pole,  a  Brown  Hackle  or  a  Parmachene  Belle 
from  a  writhing  bait;  who  had  so  instructed 
his  offspring  that  the  latter  might  be  trusted 
alone  with  a  good  rod  and — yes — a  multiply 
ing  reel,  and  a  six-foot  leader,  and  a  braided 
silk  line.  In  sixty  seconds  of  observation,  from 
[11] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

eyes  which  had  studied  with  equal  closeness 
the  ways  of  sparrows  and  of  lions,  much  was 
known  of  antecedents  and  character  and 
habits  of  this  unconscious  specimen.  Mean 
time  the  boy  stuck  out  his  tongue  and 
splashed  his  toes  and  frowned  as  his  fingers 
fumbled  at  the  tangles  in  the  leader. 

"Good  day,  there  !"  dropped  the  personage 
over  the  bridge. 

The  foot  stopped  its  up-and-down  motion, 
the  tongue  withdrew  to  quarters,  and  Jimmie 
looked  up.  "Good  day,  sir,"  came  a  civil  an 
swer. 

The  greeting  was  coated  with  reserve  of 
boyhood,  exactly  as  it  should  be.  Such 
civility,  such  decent  awkwardness  of  youth 
was  what  the  personage  expected  from  the 
upbringing  he  had  arranged  for  that  boy; 
Five-ounce  rod  and  budding  fly -fisherman; 
if  a  naturalist  may  successfully  build  a  pre 
historic  monster  from  one  jaw-bone,  the  per 
sonage  reflected,  with  satisfaction,  it  was 
fitting  that  the  human  animal  he  had  put  to- 
[12] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

gether  from  a  rod  and  a  reel  and  a  cast  of 
flies  should  turn  out  according  to  specifica 
tions. 

"You're  in  a  scrape.  Hold  on  a  minute. 
I'll  come  and  help." 

He  was  scrambling  down  the  bank,  while 
the  boy,  undisturbed,  merely  threw  a  glance 
and  went  on  at  his  Sisyphus  labor  of  the 
leader. 

"Get  your  feet  wet,  sir,  if  you  try  to  jump 
it,"  he  advised  briefly. 

But  Jimmie  was  talking  to  a  man  whose 
rule  on  many  a  tramp  had  been  "over  or 
through."  The  personage,  seated  on  a  log, 
was  now  taking  off  correct  but  superfluous 
shoes  and  stockings.  Jimmie's  sidelong  glance 
was  supremely  non-committal,  yet  had  there 
been  a  secretary  of  Jimmie's  interior  his  re 
port  would  have  been  approval  for  this 
stranger  who  was,  evidently,  as  good  a  sport 
as  a  boy.  With  that  the  personage,  his  nether 
raiment  disposed  above  his  knees,  even  as 
Jimmie's,  and  his  coat  on  the  log,  waded  out. 

[13] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

"What's  your  name,  boy?" 

"Jimmie,"  said  Jimmie. 

"Hand  over  that  mess  and  I'll  grapple 
with  it,  Jimmie." 

The  curly  snells  and  the  flies  and  that 
twisting  ray  of  pearly  light  the  leader,  which 
had  begun  to  appear  an  organization  of  dia 
bolical  intelligence  to  Jimmie's  thirteen-year- 
old  fingers,  slowly  let  go  each  other  under  a 
masterful  touch. 

"Thank  you,"  Jimmie  pronounced  gravely, 
trying,  as  boys  forever  will,  to  show  by  no 
word  or  sign  his  extreme  admiration  of  the 
efficiency  of  the  untangler. 

But  the  man  understood  boys.  He  knew 
well  enough,  though  probably  he  gave  it 
small  thought,  that  one  of  the  most  wonder 
ful  personalities  of  history  had  found  no 
trouble  in  hitting  the  entrance  to  the  trail 
which  led  to  that  hidden  thing,  a  boy's 
heart.  He  knew,  also,  that  only  undeviating 
reality  might  keep  him  in  that  narrow  path. 
It  seemed  worth  while  to  the  million-faceted 
[14] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

mind,  on  this  stolen  day  in  June,  to  find  the 
way,  and  come  in  as  a  comrade,  and  touch 
with  understanding  this  out-of-the-way  little 
life  which,  bare-legged  and  home-tailored, 
still  held,  inexplicably,  an  atmosphere;  which 
was,  even  lacking  that,  the  life  of  a  young 
American.  To  the  personage  that  word,  per 
haps,  crowned  the  head  of  the  humblest  who 
honestly  wore  it. 

"  Go  ahead  and  pull  out  a  fish,"  he  advised, 
when  at  last  the  leader,  with  its  dim  flies, 
trembled,  an  intermittent  beam  above  the 
foam-specked  pool.  But  the  lad  passed  the 
rod  butt  across  a  huckleberry  bush. 

"You  take  a  try,"  he  offered. 

"Thank  you.  But  I  don't  want  to  break 
up  your  fishing."  The  personage  treated 
the  red-headed  boy  with  distinguished  cour 
tesy. 

"Oh,  take  a  try,"  the  boy  insisted.  "I 
wouldn't  mind,  really.  It's  a  dandy  rod — it's 
my  father's.  It's  a  real  Leonard  rod." 

"Well,"  said  the  personage,  "fishing  isn't 
[15] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

my  pet  crime,  but  as  it's  a  real  Leonard 
rod " 

The  boy  watched,  a  close  critic,  as  the 
man's  hand  gripped  the  butt  and  shot  its 
fairy  weight  of  line  over  the  water. 

"Look  out  for  the  recover,"  he  advised 
with  fatherly  circumspection.  "Some  pesky 
bushes  right  there.  You  have  to  be  careful." 

"Oh  !"  answered  the  personage.  His  eyes 
appeared  to  scintillate  behind  their  glasses. 

"Be  sure  and  don't  whack  the  tip,"  Jim- 
mie  suggested  further.  "You're  not  so  aw 
fully  used  to  fishing,  are  you?  It's  a  real 
Leonard  rod,  and  my  father  won't  let  me 
take  it  only  when  I  fish  alone.  He  says  he 
won't  have  any  wild  Indians  practising  with 
it.  He  says  he  couldn't  afford  to  buy  another 
if  it  smashed." 

"Oh !"  was  again  the  response  of  the  per 
sonage.  "It  would  never  do  for  me  to  be  a 
wild  Indian  under  the  circumstances,  would 
it?  This  is  really  great  fun,"  he  added  joy 
fully,  and  threw  a  glance  over  his  shoulder  to 

[16] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

make  sure  that  the  recover  cleared  the  pesky 
bushes. 

"You  handle  a  good  deal  of  line,"  Jimmie's 
voice  arose  from  where  he  squatted  at  the 
water's  edge,  regarding  with  expert  eye  every 
breath  the  stranger  drew  as  custodian  of  the 
Leonard  rod.  "You're  carefuller  than  the 
boys,"  he  went  on,  "but  I  don't  know  if 
you're  qu-ite  as  careful  as  me.  You  see,  the 
tip  breaks  awfully  easy  of  these  Leon — 
Hi ! "  Jimmie  was  a  tense  bunch  of  excite 
ment.  "Aw,  gee!"  scornfully.  "A  fish  rose. 
If  you  hadn't  splashed  the  water  with  the 
flies  you'd  sure  have  taken  a  fish.  A  good  one, 
too;  three-quarters  of  a  pound." 

"If  he  was  exactly  three-quarters  of  a 
pound  you  did  uncommonly  quick  weigh 
ing,"  commented  the  personage.  "You'd 
better  take  the  rod  now.  It's  a  first-class  rod 
and  I've  enjoyed  it  immensely.  But  it's  not 
a  square  deal  to  butt  into  another  man's  fish 
ing.  What's  that  bird?" 

The  stranger,  depositing  the  rod  in  Jim- 
[17] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

mie's  reverent  hand,  was  staring  into  the 
big  cottonwood  tree  which  overhung  their 
rock.  A  long  note  and  then  another,  holding 
all  the  drowsiness  of  the  hot  day,  liquid, 
lonely,  crystally  sweet,  drifted  out  above 
them.  The  personage,  shielding  his  eyes, 
stared  into  the  foliage. 

Jimmie  shunted  a  casual  side  glance  and 
made  answer.  "Green-eyed  vireo.  He's  al 
ways  here  when  I  fish.  There's  an  oriole 
comes,  too.  Here's  the  way  he  whistles." 
From  Jimmie's  mouth  came  a  bird-call  as 
accurate  as  if  he  had  passed  his  days  in  tree- 
tops. 

The  personage  turned  a  swift  glance  on 
the  slim  figure.  "This  is  great !  I've  caught  a 
young  naturalist,"  he  shot  out — but  at  this 
juncture  all  other  interests  went  down  in 
sudden  upheaval  of  the  main  event  of  a 
fisherman's  existence. 

"Gee!"  brought  out  Jimmie  passionately. 
"Don't  talk  !  Holy  Mike  !  I've  got  two  on  at 
once."  Jimmie  was  a  competent  fisherman. 
[18] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

Not  without  result  had  his  father  put  a  rod 
into  his  baby  hands  and  trained  him,  these 
six  years  now,  in  subtleties  of  the  craft.  Very 
proud  he  was,  under  the  eye  of  this  stranger 
who  had  dropped  from  the  skies,  this  stranger 
who  had  fascinated  him  as  no  other  human 
being  had  done  in  his  thirteen  years,  to  show 
competency.  After  an  anxious  ten  minutes 
the  slashing  and  pulling,  the  runs  and 
doublings  back,  the  clean  two-foot  jumps  into 
air,  so  dangerous  to  success  and  to  rod, 
slackened.  Jimmie,  with  art,  drew  the  shin 
ing,  slapping  things  toward  the  rock. 

"The  net  there — you  land  'em,"  he  issued 
orders  from  his  vantage  as  hero.  "Down 
there,  sir,  close — aw,  gee !  On  your  knees ! 
You'll  miss  'em  if  you  lean  over.  Never  mind 
the  water.  We  can't  lose  these  fish." 

Laughter  flashed  from  behind  the  glasses; 
then  the  personage  dropped  on  his  bare  knees 
in  a  wash  of  cold  brown  water  and  wielded 
the  net  above  the  slowly  approaching  bass. 

"Wet  the  net.  Take  the  one  on  the  hand 
[19] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

fly  first,"  commanded  Jimmie  in  terrible 
tones. 

The  wet  net  swooped  down,  up — twice — 
and  in  it  each  time  was  a  kicking  black  bass. 
Landed. 

Jimmie  let  forth  a  whoop. 

"Gee !  I  feel  as  if  I'd  done  the  work  of  two 
men  for  a  week,"  he  announced.  He  pro 
ceeded  to  break  the  necks  of  the  fish  and  to 
take  them  off  the  flies,  caught  in  the  meshes 
of  the  landing-net.  "One  of  'em  took  the 
Brown  Hackle  and  one  the  Montreal.  I'll 
remember  to  tell  dad."  He  glanced  up. 
"Thank  you  for  landing  'em.  You  did  it 
all  right.  At  least  it  came  out  right,"  he 
added,  not  to  be  fulsome  in  praise.  Then 
Jimmie  asked  a  question.  "Is  there,"  he 
asked,  with  a  straight,  sweet  boy  glance  into 
the  stranger's  face,  "is  there  anything  that 
you  do  better  than  fishing?" 

The  man  shot  a  look,  direct  as  an  arrow 
from  a  bow,  at  Jimmie's  sincere  eyes,  and 
broke  into  laughter  which  shook  his  body. 
[20] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

Brilliant  rows  of  teeth  glittered;  Jimmie  was 
struck  by  the  whole-souled  assistance  of 
those  white  teeth  in  the  business  of  laughing; 
it  seemed  to  him  he  had  never  seen  so  many 
teeth  in  any  mouth.  He  got  an  answer  as 
straight  from  the  shoulder  as  his  question. 

"Yes."  The  personage  was  speaking  in  an 
odd  falsetto,  carrying  a  bubbling  humor 
which  suddenly  made  Jimmie  laugh  also,  at 
what  he  was  not  sure.  "Yes,  you  scamp.  I  do 
several  things  much  better;  extremely  well,  I 
may  say.  I  can  shoot  a  bear  or  even  a  lion 
really  very  nicely." 

"Huh."  Jimmie  was  doubtful  about  that 
statement.  Sometimes  people  thought  it 
clever  to  lie  to  boys.  "My  Uncle  Jim  was  in 
Canada  and  he  killed  a  cannibal,"  stated 
Jimmie,  not  to  be  outdone. 

"A  what?"  The  falsetto  note  again. 

Jimmie  looked  up.  "Isn't  it?  Like  a 
reindeer." 

"Caribou,"  corrected  the  stranger,  as  one 
sportsman  to  another. 

[211 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

Jimmie  was  not  hurt,  but  became  silent, 
plunged  in  reflection.  "I  thought  mother  said 
cannibal,  and  mother  always  knows,"  he 
reasoned.  "But  maybe  I  heard  wrong. 
Maybe  you're  right." 

"I  am,"  the  stranger  announced.  A  firm 
jaw  snapped  on  the  words. 

Jimmie,  fondling  his  dead  fish,  risked  a 
flier. 

"Were  you  jokin'  about  killin'  lions?" 

"No,  I  have  killed  lions.  And  bears.  And 
wolves.  I  could  give  you  blood-curdling  in 
formation  which  would,  I  think,  meet  your 
approval  about  big-game  shooting." 

"Huh?" 

And  with  that  ensued  such  an  entrancing 
quarter  of  an  hour  as  this  red-headed  lad 
had  never  hoped  to  pass.  Vaguely  the  young 
mind  recognized  the  unphrased  fact  that  the 
stranger,  dangling  bare  legs  beside  Jimmie's 
bare  legs,  talking  in  incisive,  explosive  sen 
tences,  was  of  an  unknown  variety.  Reluc 
tantly,  as  boys  come  to  an  emotional  con- 

[22] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

dition,  there  surged  within  him  a  feeling 
powerful,  mastering,  unchristened  of  Jim- 
mie,  known  to  the  sophisticated  as  hero- 
worship.  This  man  took  as  much  trouble  to 
talk  to  Jimmie,  only  thirteen,  and  not  expect 
ing  attention  from  grown-ups,  as  if  Jimmie 
were  the  governor.  And  what  a  man !  The 
lad's  eyes  were  glued  on  the  mustached 
mouth,  from  whence  issued  incredible  words, 
as  if  he  feared  the  escape  of  a  fraction  of  a 
syllable,  as  if  he  dared  not  trust  ears  alone 
with  this  tremendous  guard  duty.  What  a 
man !  He  had  done  everything  that  made 
life  worth  living;  he  had  killed  a  list  of  ani 
mals  before  which  a  decent  circus  might  hide 
its  head.  Listen  to  this  man ! 

"Did  the  wolf -hunter  really  stick  his  hand 
down  the  wolf's  throat?"  Jimmie  gasped. 

"My  dear  fellow,  exactly.  He  was  really  a 
wonderful  chap.  One  run  was  nine  miles. 
At  the  end  he  caught  the  wolf  alive  by 
thrusting  his  gloved  hands  down  its  jaws  so 
it  couldn't  bite.  He  then  tied  up  this  wolf 
[23] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

and  held  it  on  the  saddle,  and  followed  his 
dogs  in  a  seven-mile  run,  and  helped  kill 
another  wolf." 

"Oh !"  Jimmie  brought  out  in  rapt  tones; 
"I  do  wish  my  father  was  a  wolf -catcher. 
I'd  like  him  better." 

"This  will  never  do,"  objected  the  man, 
and  the  falsetto  note  broke  into  his  voice. 
"I  mustn't  sow  seeds  of  discontent  in  a  fam 
ily  circle." 

Jimmie  was  uncertain  as  to  what  that 
might  mean.  Nothing  to  do  with  lions  and 
wolves,  probably,  and  his  mind  now  moved 
with  such.  "Tell  me  one  more  about  your 
killing  a  lion,"  he  pleaded.  "You,  not  the 
others." 

And  the  man  told.  "So  that  I  bagged  that 
day  two  lions  and  a  rhinoceros,"  the  tale 
ended. 

It  was  three  breathless  minutes  later  and 

Jimmie's  eyes  still  watched  the  man's  mouth 

if  haply  more — even  one  or  two  more — of 

these  hypnotic  words  might  come  out  of  it. 

[24] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

"Oh!"  lie  sighed,  "that's— fine.  Father's 
promised  me  a  rifle.  But  only  a  twenty-two 
Fontenoy,"  he  admitted  with  wistful  hon 
esty.  "I  suppose  a  boy  couldn't  shoot  a  lion 
with  a  twenty -two,  could  he?  Or  even  a 
wolf?" 

The  head  on  its  powerful  bull  neck  shook 
with  decision.  "No.  A  twenty -two  is  too 
light  for  big  game.  But  it's  splendid  for  par 
tridges  and  such  gentry.  And  that  teaches 
you  shooting.  I  wouldn't  get  a  Fontenoy. 
Tell  your  father  to  look  at  a  little  Winchester 
or  a  Remington." 

"I  will,"  the  boy  assured  him  eagerly. 
Then  the  bright  face  was  serious.  "I'm  not 
sure  he  can  get  it.  He  said  if  he  could  afford 
it.  And  last  night  he  said  he  needed  the 
money  so  much,  the  five  thousand  dollars." 

The  stranger's  face  was  puzzled  but 
kindly.  He  regretted  that  this  good  sort  of 
boy,  born  a  sportsman  and  a  naturalist, 
should  be  done  out  of  his  little  rifle. 

The  boy's  voice  slipped  on.  "If  dad  takes 

[25] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

the  five  thousand  dollars  I  think  he'll  get  me 
the  rifle,  but  mother  says  it  wouldn't  be 
honest." 

One  must  stop  the  betrayal  of  family  se 
crets;  but  the  voice  slipped  on.  "It's  that 
rich  Mr.  Pierce  who  wants  to  pay  dad  five 
thousand  dollars  to  give  Eddie  Pierce  the 
nomination  to  West  Point.  Eddie  Pierce  is 
no  good,"  stated  the  boy.  "He's  mean.  And 
— he  drinks  whiskey.  I  saw  him."  Jimmie 
whispered  the  last. 

The  stranger  listened  now. 

"Mother  said,"  the  lad  went  on — and  it 
seemed  the  young  mind  was  sharing  a  bur 
den  with  this  strong  helper — "mother  said  if 
father  did  it  he'd  lower  the  flag.  That's  aw 
ful,"  Jimmie  commented. 

"Awful,  indeed,"  the  stranger  agreed 
gravely.  "Jimmie,  what's  your  father?  A 
Congressman  ?  " 

Jimmie  nodded,  closing  his  lips  tightly  as 
if  not  to  be  too  proud.  "Uh-huh."  The 
freckled  face  sobered.  "He  says  he  can't  go 
[26] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

back  to  Washington  if  he  doesn't  take  Mr. 
Pierce's  five  thousand  dollars.  He's  got  debts. 
That's  the  same  as  owing  money,  isn't  it  ? " 

The  appealing  small  face  lifted  to  the 
strong  frowning  one. 

"Yes,  Jimmie."  It  was  said  gently,  but 
the  man's  mind  was  evidently  busy  con 
sidering  something.  There  was  silence  for  a 
minute — two  minutes.  Jimmie  slid  forward 
and  splashed  his  toe.  "Jimmie,"  the  stranger 
brought  out,  "your  father  must  not  take 
that  money  from  Mr.  Pierce.  We  mustn't  let 
him,  you  and  I." 

Jimmie  stopped  splashing.  The  man  be 
side  him  had  risen,  and  above  the  upturned 
red  head,  across  the  shimmering  water  of  the 
pool,  were  rolling  out  words  which  the  boy, 
not  altogether  understanding,  drank  in  and 
stored  away,  and  brought  out  many  a  day 
long  after,  when  his  mind  had  grown  to  con 
tain  their  thought. 

"The  question  of  the  quality  of  the  in 
dividual  citizen  is  supreme;  it  means  the  sue- 

[27] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

cess  or  failure  of  the  country,  and  the  success 
of  republics  like  ours  means  the  glory,  and 
our  failure  the  despair  of  mankind." 

The  ringing  words  shifted  into  a  conversa 
tional,  yet  still  a  serious,  tone.  "  Jimmie,"  he 
addressed  the  lad,  and  the  lad  regarded  his 
new  friend  with  a  feeling  mixed  of  comfort 
and  awe.  "Jimmie,  you  must  tell  your  father 
a  thing  for  me.  Tell  him  he  must  stop,  now, 
before  he  takes  another  step,  and  realize  that 
for  winning  success  in  life  character  counts 
most.  Tell  him  that  his  honor  as  a  United 
States  official  is  the  honor  of  our  nation.  Can 
you  remember  that,  Jimmie  ?  Say  it  over." 

Stumbling  at  first,  but  after  a  lesson  or 
two  well  enough,  Jimmie  repeated  the  words. 

"Your  mother  is  right.  Mothers  mostly 
are.  Fathers  are  splendid,  but  merely  vice- 
mothers.  Your  mother  is  right.  It  is  her  honor 
and  yours  that  your  father  would  throw  away 
if  he  took  the  five  thousand  dollars.  And  his 
own  self-respect."  The  impetuous  voice  went 
on,  biting  out  sentences.  "He  could  never 

[28] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

hqld  up  his  head  again  if  he  did  that."  The 
man's  clenched  right  fist  drew  back  and 
came  down  with  a  clap  into  his  left  palm. 
"Nothing  would  hire  me  to  accept  even  the 
presidency  if  I  had  to  take  it  on  terms  which 
would  mean  a  forfeiting  of  self-respect." 
The  man  shot  it  out,  partly  at  Jimmie,  partly 
at  the  universe. 

"And  mother  said,"  added  Jimmie,  nod 
ding  his  head  with  endorsement,  "that  it 
wasn't  patriotic,  and  it  was" — Jimmie's  voice 
dropped  at  the  tremendous  words — "dis 
loyal  to  the  flag." 

"Good  for  your  mother!  She's  raising  her 
boy  to  be  a  soldier,  if  need  comes.  That's  the 
American  spirit,  Jimmie — stick  to  it."  Again 
the  man's  eyes  went  past  Jimmie's  devouring 
gaze.  "The  flag  of  America  !"  he  spoke,  and 
his  soft  hat  was  whipped  off  and  crushed  with 
a  wide  gesture  against  a  broad  chest.  Then 
he  shot  out  words  hot,  impulsive,  measured, 
inspired:  "The  long  fight  for  righteousness," 
he  spoke  loudly,  as  if  a  multitude  listened, 
[29] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

and  larger  issues  than  the  boy  knew  were 
before  those  vision-seeing  eyes.  "It  is  little 
matter  whether  one  man  fails  or  succeeds," 
he  said,  "but  the  cause  shall  not  fail,  for  it  is 
the  cause  of  humanity." 

There  was  a  tense  silence.  Only  a  minute 
it  lasted,  but  the  awed  boy  never  forgot  the 
figure  standing  there,  the  hat  crushed  against 
his  breast,  the  eyes  seeing  far  things.  Every 
day  tones  broke  the  spell.  "I've  had  such  a 
good  time,  Jimmie,"  announced  the  stranger, 
"that  I  feel  like  throwing  up  my  hands  and 
going  to  the  circus.  You're  a  trump  to  let  me 
fish  with  the  Leonard  rod.  I  hope  I  didn't 
hurt  it." 

Vigorous  fingers  pushed  back  the  red  locks 
that  hung  over  Jimmie 's  eyebrows,  and  the 
keen  eyes  behind  the  glasses,  suffused  and 
softened  with  a  look  of  fatherliness,  gazed  at 
the  young  face.  "It's  into  the  hands  of  such 
as  you  that  the  empire  will  pass.  Love 
America,  and  work  for  her,  Jimmie,  and  fight 
for  her  if  need  comes." 

[30] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

The  beloved  stranger  had  turned,  and  was 
wading  back  across  the  stream,  and  the  lad 
watched  speechless  as  the  shoes  and  stockings 
were  rapidly  put  on,  a  heavy-hearted  lad 
to  lose  this  presence  which  so  filled  the  hori 
zon,  which  seemed  necessary  now  to  the  well- 
being  of  the  world. 

"Good-by,  Jimmie." 

From  the  bridge  above,  whence  his  voice 
had  first  come,  only  an  hour  ago,  he  was  wav 
ing  a  farewell,  and  the  boy  looked  up,  and 
his  eyes  followed  the  figure  which  turned  and 
went  off  into  the  shadows,  and  he  did  not 
know,  then,  that  the  greatest  American  of  all 
had  come  into  his  life  and  gone  out  of  it. 

Shortly  Jimmie  stood,  as  one  carrying 
responsibility,  before  his  father,  and  gave 
his  message. 

"I  don't  get  you,"  objected  his  father. 
"Who  said  all  this?" 

"The  man." 

"Whatman?" 

"A  strange  man  who  fished  with  me." 
[31] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

"Did  you  tell  some  strange  man — about — 
Mr.  Pierce?" 

Jimmie  nodded.  "Yes,  dad." 

His  father's  face  darkened.  "I  thought  I 
could  trust  you  to  hold  your  tongue." 

Jimmie  turned  scarlet;  tears  were  not  dis 
tant.  "You  can  trust  me.  But  this  man  was 
different." 

"What  man  was  he?" 

Jimmie  shook  his  head.  "He  came." 

"  Came  from  where  ?  " 

"Over  the  bridge  at  Hurrah  Pool." 

"What  was  he  like?" 

Jimmie  considered.  "Like  an  army  with 
banners,"  he  said. 

"What  does  the  child  mean?" 

"Give  him  time,"  the  child's  mother  ad 
vised.  "They  read  that  in  church  Sunday, 
and  he  kept  saying  it  all  the  way  home.  'An 
army  with  banners.'  It  took  his  fancy.  He 
means  something  special,  I  think.  Give  him 
time." 

Jimmie  cast  a  grateful  look.  "Mother  al 
ways  understands." 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

His  father  came  back  to  the  point.  "What 
was  his  name?  Where  did  he  come  from? 
What  did  he  look  like?" 

Jimmie  answered  the  last  question.  He 
settled  himself  squarely  on  his  feet,  sank  his 
head  so  that  his  slim  neck  took  on  a  solid  air, 
shoved  his  spectacles  back  over  his  ears, 
drew  back  his  lower  lip  till  all  his  teeth 
showed. 

"Love — America — and  work  for  her — 
Jimmie.  And  fight  for  her  if  need  comes." 

Jimmie  bit  out  his  imitation  of  a  manner 
so  characteristic,  so  unmistakable,  that  the 
world  recognizes  the  most  unskilled  version. 
He  lifted  his  right  fist  and  dealt  a  smashing 
blow  into  his  left  palm. 

"That's  what  he's  like.  Oh—"  Jimmie 
mourned  forlornly.  "I  hate  him  to  go." 

The  man  turned  an  amazed  glance  at  his 
wife.  "It's  Roosevelt,"  he  said. 

"But  the  train  wasn't  to  stop  here,"  the 
boy's  mother  argued. 

"It  must  have  stopped,"  said  the  man. 
"There's  no  question  whom  the  boy  is  copy- 
[33] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

ing.  It  was  like  him  to  give  an  hour  to  a 
child;  like  him  to  send  me  the  message." 
Jimmie's  father's  face  worked  with  emotion. 
For  years  Theodore  Roosevelt  had  been  his 
hero.  "Tell  me  everything  he  said." 

And  Jimmie,  with  much  questioning,  man 
aged  to  tell  almost  everything. 

"If  I  take  that  money,  I  can  never  hold 
up  my  head  again.  Roosevelt  said  it,"  the 
man  spoke  when  the  tale  ended.  "T.  R.  It 
settles  it,  Annie.  I  knew  all  along.  But — I 
couldn't  see.  Now  I  see  with  his  eyes — the 
Colonel's — eyes  that  never  yet  saw  wrong 
look  right.  We'll  manage,  Annie.  I  won't  sell 
your  honor  and  the  boy's.  I'll  hold  up  my 
head  with  honest  men." 

"Oh,  dad,"  mourned  Jimmie,  absorbed  in 
his  own  loss,  draping  himself  over  the  back 
of  the  sofa  where  the  two  sat  shaken  with  a 
crisis  of  their  lives.  "Oh,  dad,  if  I'm  the  best 
American  ever,  don't  you  suppose  I  could 
shoot  something  with  him  some  day?" 

And  Jimmie's  wildest  dreams  could  not 
[341 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

have  compassed  how  utterly  he  would  be 
proving  himself  American,  or  what  game  he 
would  be  in  the  way  to  shoot  when  he  saw 
Roosevelt  again. 

•  ••••••• 

On  April  6,  1917,  the  United  States  of 
America  declared  war  against  Germany. 
On  the  8th,  when  a  recruiting  station  was 
opened  in  the  town  of  Silverford,  a  tall, 
broad,  red-headed  young  fellow  walked  in 
and  presented  himself,  the  first  man,  for  en 
listment.  Shortly  after,  the  old  Scotchman, 
in  charge  of  the  recruiting  station,  laughed 
at  him. 

"Take  off  your  glasses  and  read  the  optical- 
test  chart,"  said  the  Scotchman. 

The  boy  laughed  too,  but  shamefacedly. 
He  could  not  read  the  big  letter  at  the  top 
fifteen  feet  away. 

"You  might  do  in  the  ambulance  service," 

the  old  Scot  suggested  kindly,  "or  there'd  be 

a  clerkship  in  the  Q.  M.  C."  The  boy  was 

biting  his  lip  so  savagely  that  the  recruiting 

[35] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

officer  feared  he  was  going  to  cry.  Eager  for 
fighting,  right  enough,  now  they  were  in  it, 
these  Americans. 

Jimmie  swung  around  and  out.  He  saw 
nothing  and  nobody  in  the  streets  as  his  long 
legs  covered  the  ground  toward  home.  He 
let  himself  into  the  house,  and  a  minute  later 
locked  the  door  of  his  room  inside  and 
dropped  into  a  chair  and  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands,  and  sat  so  a  long  time.  If  the 
Scotch  sergeant  had  been  present  and  a 
mind-reader,  he  would  have  had  a  shock.  For 
Jimmie,  biting  his  lip  still,  appalled,  ashamed, 
yet  knew  that  his  soul  was  singing  a  paean  of 
joy.  Two  months  back  his  mother  had  said: 

"If  war  comes,  I  want  you  to  be  the  first 
to  go.  You'needn't  have  one  troubled  thought 
for  me,  boy.  I  couldn't  bear  it  if  you  weren't 
fighting." 

All  over  America  boys'  mothers  were  say 
ing  such  words.  Perhaps  it  was  one  reason 
that  America's  four  million  soldiers  were 
known  as  a  singing  army.  Jimmie  murmured 
[36] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

something  about  "a  peach,"  and  kissed  her 
and  went  away.  And  from  that  till  the  morn 
ing  he  marched  into  the  recruiting  station  it 
had  been  one  long,  sickening  effort  not  to  let 
his  mother  know — not  to  let  any  one  know— 
the  thing  that  was  eating  his  heart  out.  For 
he  held  the  fact  before  him  and  faced  it,  that 
he  was  afraid.  Not  afraid  to  be  shot  or  to 
die;  afraid  of  the  long  horror  and  filth  and 
suffering  of  war;  afraid  of  standing  shivering 
and  wet,  with  throbbing  feet,  in  the  trenches; 
of  lying  out  wounded  in  No  Man's  Land, 
with  a  hot  sun  blazing,  and  the  torture  of 
flies;  afraid  of  the  sights  of  agony  of  men  and 
horses;  of  falling  into  the  hands  of  savages, 
of  prison  camps,  of  slavery  in  mines;  a  moving 
picture  of  hideous  possibilities  swept  day  and 
night  across  the  background  of  his  mind; 
Jimmie  was  blessed  and  cursed  with  imagina 
tion.  And  his  mother,  watching,  knew  that 
the  depths  were  stirred,  and  out  of  her  own 
courage  read  him  wrong. 

"Jimmie,"    she    spoke,    "you're    wearing 
[37] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

yourself  out  with  longing  to  go.  Don't  grudge 
the  last  weeks  at  home,  dear — it  won't  be 
long  now  till  they're  needing  volunteers. 
Then  I,  who  gave  you  your  life,  I'll  tell  you 
not  to  spare  it.  I'm  proud  because  you're 
eager — to  pay  with  your  body  for  your  soul's 
desire.  The  Colonel  said  that — you  remember 
it,  Jimmie  ?  "  She  was  silent  a  moment,  while 
the  boy,  his  head  bent  low,  stroked  her  hand. 
Then,  "I've  thought,"  she  went  on,  "how 
glad  Roosevelt  would  be  to  know  that  the 
boy  with  whom  he  went  fishing  that  June 
day  had  made  the  sort  of  man  he  wants 
American  boys  to  make."  Her  voice  choked. 
"He'd  be  glad  of  the  sort  you  are,  Jimmie." 

After  that  what  was  there  for  a  boy  who 
wished  ever  to  hold  up  his  head?  Without 
the  spur  of  the  bold  longing  for  adventure 
which  pitched  most  of  our  lads  heedless,  un- 
realizing,  into  war,  this  boy  was  sick  at  heart 
for  the  lack  which  he  felt  in  himself,  and  by 
sheer  will  set  himself  to  do  his  duty  to  his 
country. 

[38] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

"Maybe  I'm  a  coward,"  considered  Jim- 
mie.  "I  don't  know.  I  loathe  getting  into  that 
mess.  Yet  I  needn't  be  a  slacker.  I  can  go 
through  the  motions.  I  can  serve — somehow." 

So,  in  all  good  faith,  he  had  gone  to  enlist 
the  moment  the  recruiting  station  opened. 
And  had  been  refused.  And  then  had  reached 
home  to  hide  his  joy  behind  closed  doors,  till 
he  might  show  a  decently  sober  face. 

On  the  wall  above  his  writing-table  hung  a 
framed  photograph — a  head  set  on  a  bull 
neck,  with  keen  eyes  in  deep  lines;  the  aggres 
sive,  grim,  scholarly,  intense  face  of  Theodore 
Roosevelt.  Jimmie  looked  at  it  a  long  time. 
The  direct  gaze  of  the  pictured  eyes  made  the 
face  seem  alive.  His  thoughts  went  to  an  un- 
forgotten  afternoon  five  years  ago,  and,  star 
ing  at  the  portrait,  he  felt  the  thrill  of  that 
electric  personality  which  had  swayed  mil 
lions,  which  had  held  a  child  spellbound. 
Words  came  to  him  not  much  understood 
when  heard,  standing  out  now  to  the  older 
boy,  conspicuous  of  meaning.  "It  is  little 
[39] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

matter  whether  one  man  fails  or  succeeds, 
but  the  cause  shall  not  fail,  for  it  is  the  cause 
of  humanity." 

The  boy  had  found  these  words  again  in 
print  and  had  written  them  under  the  por 
trait.  They  faced  him  now.  The  head  seemed 
to  push  toward  him,  thrusting  forward  the 
words.  "The  cause  of  humanity" — it  was 
this  war — this  crusade. 

"I  tried  to  get  in,  Colonel,"  Jimmie  spoke 
aloud,  and  the  picture  looked  back,  e^p^ctant. 
"They  turned  me  down  for  bad  eyes,"  the 
boy  explained.  The  face  regarded  him.  "Oh, 
don't — don't  be  hard.  You  were  afraid  of 
things  once,"  the  boy  flung  up  at  him.  "You 
said  so  in  the  autobiography." 

Silently  the  answer  came  formed  in  the 
boy's  own  mind,  scintillating  from  that 
grim  face.  "I  conquered  my  fear,"  spoke  the 
picture. 

"But,  oh — I  can't."  He  flung  his  arms  out 
.and  his  head  dropped  into  them  on  the  table. 

He  raised  his  head  and  stared  at  the  soul- 
[40] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MAHCHING  ON 

searching  eyes.  They  waited  yet,  the  eyes  of 
Roosevelt,  and  the  boy  read  again  the  words 
written  below:  "The  cause  shall  not  fail,  for 
it  is  the  cause  of  humanity."  A  door  opened 
into  a  new  consciousness.  "The  cause" — 
why,  that  was  the  whole  trick.  What  matter 
if  he  were  afraid  or  not,  if  he  loathed  war  or 
not.  In  his  hands  lay  a  millionth,  a  four  mil 
lionth  of  power  to  make  the  cause  triumph. 
By  what  right  should  he  withhold  it,  a  son 
of  America  with  a  fraction  of  America's  honor 
in  his  keeping?  What  he  did  counted,  not 
how  he  felt — that  was  the  whole  question. 
Jimmie  sprang  to  his  feet  and  saluted — awk 
wardly,  for  he  was  no  soldier  yet — the  lion 
head. 

"I  will,  Colonel.  God  and  you  helping  me, 
I  will.  You've  got  me  around  the  worst  corner 
of  my  life,  T.  R.,  our  own  big  T.  R."— he 
spoke  slowly,  and  his  look  gleamed  mistily  at 
the  photograph.  "I'll  get  into  the  fighting. 
I'll  do  my  bit,  Colonel — I'm  promising.  You'll 
never  know,  but  you'll  maybe  be  proud  of 

[41] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

American  boys;  I'll  be  in  on  that."  The 
stirred  face  softened  suddenly  into  wistful- 
ness.  "If  I'm  scared  stiff  under  my  skin, 
that  won't  count,  will  it,  Colonel  ?  Not  if  f  put 
it  across  ?  You'd  forgive  that  to  a  chap  who's 
doing  his  darnedest,  wouldn't  you,  sir?" 

"That  settles  it,"  said  his  father,  when  the 
verdict  of  the  recruiting  station  was  reported. 

Jimmie  laughed.  "Well,  no,"  he  said.  "I 
thought  so  myself  at  first,  but  I  got  talk 
ing  to  the  Colonel  up  in  my  room,  and  he 
stumped  me  to  get  in  anyhow.  So  I'm  going 
to." 

His  father  demurred.  "You've  offered  your 
self.  You're  disqualified;  why  not  let  it  go  at 
that?  You're  quite  justified  in  taking  now  a 
safer  service.  And  it  isn't  as  if  men  were 
lacking.  There  are  millions  ready  to  go." 

"Of  whom  I'm  one,"  stated  Jimmie. 

His  mother's  eyes,  grave,  loving,  lifted. 
"You're  right,  you  and  the  Colonel,"  she 
considered.  "Tom,  we  won't  hold  him.  It's 
more  than  his  life,  it's  his  character.  The 

[42] 


Colonel's  hand  is  in  it.  Likely  all  over  Amer 
ica  there  are  boys  rushing  to  enlist,  like 
Jimmie,  with  the  thought  of  him  in  their 
minds.  He's  like  a  trumpet  calling." 

"Like  an  army  with  banners,"  spoke  Jim 
mie  reminiscent ly,  and  smiled  at  his  mother. 

Jimmie 's  father  nodded.  "He's  our  fight 
ing  man.  He's  never  missed  a  chance  to  sow 
Americanism,  and  the  seed  is  springing 
khaki-colored.  The  American,  past  or  pres 
ent,"  finished  Jimmie's  father  devoutly. 
And  added:  "If  you  and  the  Colonel  have 
settled  it,  boy,  go  to  it." 

The  lad  schemed  and  struggled  and  pulled 
wires  to  get  into  a  fighting  unit,  hindered  by 
defective  vision,  until  at  last  the  draft  gave 
him  his  chance;  an  order  came  in  from  Wash 
ington  authorizing  limited  acceptance  of  men 
using  glasses.  Then  it  was  a  boy  running  down 
the  familiar  street  toward  the  station,  look 
ing  back  at  his  mother,  who  smiled  and 
waved,  and  felt  blood  dropping  out  of  her 
[43] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

veins,  and  an  aching  emptiness  unbearable — 
and  smiled  and  waved.  Then  it  was  a  camp 
life  with  plenty  of  excitement  and  comrades 
of  sorts,  who  mostly  amused  him,  for  the  lad 
was  a  good  mixer — from  the  descendant  of 
English  earls,  whose  decorative  real  name 
was  transformed  into  "Strawberry  Trousers" 
to  Weeney  the  Pole,  Weeney  a  soldier  by 
heredity  of  seven  hundred  years.  The  proper 
name  of  him  was  beyond  Anglo-Saxon 
tongues,  and  as  he  stretched  inches  over  six 
feet,  Teeny-weeney  seemed  fitting  to  call 
him.  His  hair  was  a  blue-black  plume,  his 
chin  pretty  as  a  girl's,  his  mouth  red,  and  a 
fierce  spirit  looked  out  of  his  eagle  eyes. 
There  was  also  Sergeant  Egan,  a  regular, 
his  face  saddle-tanned  by  desert  sun,  his 
eye-pockets  full  of  fine  lines,  from  focussing 
long  on  distances;  a  strong  six-footer  Egan, 
whose  black  hair  curled  in  a  whirl  at  the  base 
of  his  skull.  A  smart  soldier,  but  not  dapper, 
was  Egan,  and  looking  over  Jimmie  he  found 
him  good,  and  proceeded  to  be  a  mother  to 
[44] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

him.  Hundreds  of  others  there  were,  and  the 
boy  discovered  to  his  relief  that  his  rushing 
day  held  no  time  for  reflecting  on  the  horrors 
of  war,  and  whether  one  was  a  hero  or  a 
coward.  To  be  up  on  the  dot,  to  get  through 
drills  and  hikes  and  unheard-of  duties  by  the 
dozen,  to  eat  and  sleep  and  rise  again  at 
break  of  day  and  go  through  the  routine, 
and  gradually,  as  swiftly  as  possible,  come 
to  be  a  soldier,  these  filled  all  the  minutes  of 
any  day.  On  cards  which  were  given  the  new 
soldiers  to  sign  in  the  camp  he  registered  him 
self  as  wishing  to  go  into  the  infantry.  That, 
it  appeared  to  the  boy  who  knew  how  fear 
felt,  was  the  completest  form  of  keeping  a 
word  given  to  a  photograph  on  a  wall.  A 
tremor  shook  something  vital  inside  as  Jim- 
mie  filled  out  that  fateful  card,  but  he  wrote 
along,  unhesitating.  With  that  he  seemed  to 
feel  strong  fingers  push  back  his  hair  with 
gentle  roughness  as  a  voice  said  words: 

"Love  America,  Jimmie;  fight  for  her  if 
need  comes." 

[451 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

"I'm  promising  you,  Colonel,"  whispered 
Jimmie,  and  put  his  name  on  the  card. 

Camp  days  fled,  and  now  the  Division 
was  in  such  shape  that  a  day  was  set  when  it 
was  to  march  up  Fifth  Avenue  in  all  its  fresh 
efficiency,  through  crowds  gathered  by  thou 
sands  and  tens  of  thousands.  The  great  of 
the  land  were  to  be  there  to  review  them,  and 
Colonel  Roosevelt  would  be  one  among  these. 
No  young  lover  ever  looked  forward  to  a 
sight,  a  glimpse,  of  his  sweetheart  as  did 
Jimmie,  a  corporal  now,  to  the  second  of 
time  when  he  might  turn  his  eyes  and  see, 
after  five  years,  that  unforgotten  face.  There 
would  be  a  crowd  of  notables  on  the  review- 
ing-stand;  might  he  not,  in  the  second  of 
passing,  swept  on  in  that  unending  march, 
miss  the  one  figure  ?  He  shivered.  And  then 
he  knew  that  he  could  not  miss  him ;  no  one 
ever  missed  seeing  Roosevelt.  "Where  the 
McGregor  sits  is  the  head  of  the  table." 
Jimmie  took  comfort. 

The  day  came.  Fifth  Avenue,  the  "Avenue 

[46] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

of  the  Allies,"  was  gay  with  sunshine  and 
bunting,  and  thrilling  with  the  atmosphere 
which  Fifth  Avenue,  more  than  all  streets  of 
America,  can  send  throbbing  through  the 
veins  of  those  who  are  a  part  of  her  on  her 
glad  and  solemn  feast  days.  To-day  was  both 
glad  and  solemn.  The  lads,  America's  chil 
dren,  had  answered  her  call  with  a  will;  but 
to  what  were  they  going,  and  how  many  of 
these  splendid  boys  would  tread  again  her 
pavement?  The  long,  stately  road  pulsed 
with  the  two  thoughts.  Up  the  wide  way 
they  swept,  company  after  company,  regi 
ment  after  regiment;  officers  stern-eyed, 
proud,  holding  in  their  nervous  mounts; 
endless  lines  of  such  manhood  as  no  other 
land  may  show,  treading  their  first  long  mile 
to  France,  sweeping  up  steadily,  holding  the 
wide  street  from  curb  to  curb.  And  far  up 
the  avenue,  if  one  had  vision,  might  well 
have  been  seen  a  mighty  figure  rising,  of 
gallant  young  America,  the  mother  of  us  all, 
towering  beyond  the  high  roofs,  arms  out- 
[47] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

stretched  toward  these,  her  best  blood,  given 
for  "the  cause." 

Among  the  thousands  marched  Jimmie,  in 
the  shining  ranks,  and  one  thought  obsessed 
him — would  he  surely  see  the  colonel?  Sol 
diers  with  their  eyes  front  are,  after  all, 
human  men  and  see  much.  Sunshine  on 
church  steeples  far  up  the  avenue;  endless 
stir  and  shifting  of  color  on  endless  masses  of 
people;  windows,  roofs,  galleries  overflowing 
with  figures;  flutter  of  hats  and  of  handker 
chiefs;  the  upward  lift  of  the  mighty  crowd 
as  the  flag  passed — Jimmie  saw  these.  He 
heard  the  indescribable  sound  of  a  crowd,  he 
caught  the  silences,  he  heard  the  roar  of 
voices,  cheering,  cheering  the  soldiers,  Amer 
ica's  own.  Then  he  knew  that  the  reviewing 
stand  was  near,  and  his  pulse  quickened. 
One  moment's  square  look  he  meant  to  have, 
but  only  that  was  possible. 

The  order  came  for  "eyes  left,"  and  Jim 
mie  sharply  turned  his  eyes,  his  head,  and 
trapped  a  memory  which  was  to  go  with  him 

[48] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

through  cold  and  hunger  and  battle-fire. 
Roosevelt  stood  in  a  distinguished  group,  at 
the  right  of  the  boyish,  slender  mayor  of 
New  York,  destined  to  give  his  own  life  later, 
in  service;  all  about  were  men  whose  faces  are 
the  A  B  C  of  the  American  people;  admirals 
and  generals  stood  at  salute  as  the  colors 
passed,  and  the  Colonel  swept  off  his  hat  with 
a  gesture  which  the  boy  suddenly  remem 
bered,  and  held  it  crushed  against  his  breast, 
as  his  face,  tense  with  a  mighty  emotion, 
gazed  out  upon  the  marching  men.  It  was  the 
face  of  a  father  who  sends  his  sons  into  peril; 
a  face  filled  and  torn  with  a  father's  tender 
ness  and  pride  and  love.  Jimmie's  hero-wor 
shipping  eyes  drank  in  that  strong,  beautiful 
look. 

"He  loves  us;  he  cares,"  Jimmie  spoke 
wordlessly. 

The   swing   of  marching   feet,   the   light, 

wonderful,   unique  swing   of  the  American 

soldier,    carried    him  past  in  its   unbroken 

rhythm.  But  from  that  moment  a  loving, 

[49] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

undaunted  soul  went  marching  up  the  ave 
nue,  side  by  side  with  the  beat  of  those  buoy 
ant  feet.  Many  a  time  in  France,  among  the 
unspoken  things  which  lay  back  in  the  con 
sciousness  of  those  thousands  of  boys,  the 
beautiful  avenue,  gay  with  sunshine,  gor 
geous  with  banners,  scintillating  with  human 
ity,  returned  to  them  and  in  its  foreground 
stood  out  the  face  typical  more  than  any  other 
of  America,  and  the  face  brought  comfort. 

Egamand  Weeney  and  the  rest  stopped  say 
ing,  "This  ain't  no  man's  war,'*  after  a  while. 
It  was  clear  that  it  was  a  war  for  strong  men, 
and  lucky  ones  at  that.  "Let's  go,"  was  one 
of  their  pet  slogans;  they  dropped  it  later. 
They  were  going  fast  enough.  They  were  a 
dumb  lot,  like  many  of  the  rougher  sort  of 
the  army;  they  spoke  in  catchwords,  in  slang 
phrases,  expressive  enough  mostly,  or  they 
spoke  facts;  beyond  this  talking  was  an  un 
known  art.  Jimmie,  who  knew  language,  was 
a  relaxation  for  them.  "Talk  to  us,  Blair," 
they  would  say,  on  a  march  it  might  be,  or 
[50] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

when  they  fell  out  to  rest,  or  camped  of  an 
evening  in  some  crowded  barn,  or  in  a  chilly 
wood,  or,  later,  in  the  worse  chill  of  old 
trenches.  And  Jimmie  would  tell  stories  out 
of  history,  out  of  science,  out  of  romance, 
to  eager  ears.  It  was  a  new  and  entrancing 
world,  the  world  of  literature  in  fact,  opening 
to  Kentucky  mountaineers,  to  miners  from 
Colorado,  to  boys  from  New  York's  slums,  the 
Rainbow  lot  who  were  Jimmie's  "buddies." 

On  a  night  before  an  advance  they  were 
lying  sprawled  over  straw,  in  a  big  building 
which  had  been  a  factory.  So  comfortable 
were  they  that  they  grew  reminiscent.  Some 
body  spoke  of  the  march  up  the  avenue  on 
that  summer  day  back  in  another  world. 

"I  seen  Teddy,"  stated  a  boy  off  a  ranch 
in  Nevada.  "I  seen  him  plain." 

"You  go  to  hell,"  adjured  Strickland,  the 
readiest  fighter  of  the  unit.  "I  seen  him  too. 
Us  all  seen  him.  He's  all  right,  is  Teddy." 
Aggressively.  Strick  felt  so  fit  that  he 
rather  hoped  some  one  would  disagree,  that 
[51] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

lie  might  have  the  pleasure  of  punching  his 
face  in.  But  no  one  did,  so  he  wandered  on, 
trusting  to  find  trouble.  "Seem*  ain't  much. 
Hearin'  him  talk's  the  thing.  Nobody  here 
ain't  heard  him." 

"I  have,"  asserted  Jimmie. 

"You  lie,"  Egan  flung  at  him  pleasantly, 
speaking  quickly,  before  Strickland  got  it 
out.  If  Strickland  said,  "You  lie,"  Jimmie 
would  have  to  fight  him;  from  Egan  the 
words  were  brotherly  affection. 

Strickland,  surprisingly,  decided  not  to  be 
truculent.  "Huh.  How'd  you  hear  him?  In  a 
hall  ?  "  he  asked  with  almost  civil  interest. 

Jimmie  shook  his  head.  "It's  a  story,"  he 
said.  At  that  there  were  calls  in  deep,  rough 
young  voices  from  all  about. 

"Tell  it!" 

"Tell  us  the  story,  Blair!" 

"Talk  to  us,  Reddy  Blair!"  came  the 
voices. 

So  Jimmie  told  this  crowd  of  rough  men  in 
uniform,  sprawled  about  the  straw  over  the 
[52] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

floor  of  the  big  bare  building,  by  no  light  at 
all  but  pale  moonlight,  for  they  were  near 
the  front  and  German  air-raids  were  immi 
nent,  about  the  June  afternoon  and  the  bass 
in  Hurrah  Pool,  and  his  father's  rod,  and  the 
stranger  who  came  over  the  bridge  and  called 
out:  "Good  day  there!"  And  the  men,  as 
Jimmie  went  on,  lifted  on  their  elbows,  sat 
up  here  and  there,  and  listened  closely,  put 
ting  in  at  times  a  rough  grunt  of  approval,  or 
a  satisfied: 

"That's  him  all  over— that's  Teddy  !" 

As  he  finished  there  was  silence,  and  Jim 
mie  knew,  astonished,  that  the  emotion 
which  held  him  had  caught  the  men  as  well. 
A  blond  boy,  perhaps  the  most  profane  and 
reckless  of  the  outfit,  leaned  toward  him. 

"Speak  it  over,  Reddy — what  he  said  to 
you  at  the  end." 

Jimmie,  realizing  by  how  slender  a  thread 
this  tense  atmosphere  was  separated  from 
ribaldry,  repeated:  "Love  America  and  work 
for  her.  Fight  for  her  if  the  need  comes." 
[53] 


SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

Then  his  breath  caught  suddenly,  for,  to 
his  amazement,  all  over  the  place  overseas 
caps  were  being  drawn  quietly  from  soldiers' 
heads.  Weeney,  the  Pole,  was  sitting  bolt  up 
right,  facing  Jimmie.  Through  broken  win 
dows  of  the  building  moonlight  streamed  and 
touched  his  blue-black,  glistening  head;  his 
eagle  eyes  glowed. 

"He's  our'n,"  growled  Weeney,  the  man 
born  and  bred  under  Russia,  the  foreigner 
who  could  not  speak  clear  English.  "Teddy's 
our'n." 

And  the  blond  boy  shot  out  a  shocking 
oath  against  the  powers  which  would  not  let 
the  Colonel  lead  America  to  battle.  "Hell ! 
We'd  'a'  done  some  swell  fightin'  if  we'd 
knowed  he  was  the  skipper ! " 

And  Egan  set  forth:  "We'll  scrap  Fritzie 
some  anyhow,  maybe,  before  we  get  bumped 
off.  Knowin*  what  T.  R.  said  won't  slow  us 
up  none."  There  was  a  second's  pause,  for 
Egan  was  held  in  respect  in  this  outfit,  before 
the  blond  boy,  with  more  foul  words,  out  of 

[54] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

his  lifelong  and  only  vocabulary,  announced 
that  it  was  time  to  sleep.  A  huge  Kentuckian 
with  a  bass  like  the  hum  of  bees  and  a  slurred, 
sweet  accent  broke  softly  into  the  "S'wanee 
River,"  and  voice  after  voice  took  up  the 
song.  Jimmie,  suddenly  finding  no  sound 
coming  from  his  throat  in  the  middle  of  a 
line,  rolled  over  on  the  straw,  and  nobody 
saw  hot  tears  that  pushed  from  under  his 
shut  lashes.  And  the  voices  of  the  men  who 
were  going  to  the  front  to-morrow,  American 
lads  three  thousand  miles  from  America, 
filled  the  rough  place  with  rich,  subdued  music 
as  they  sang  on,  a  song  about: 

''How  my  heart  grows  weary 
Far  from  de  ole  folks  at  home." 


They  were  called  before  daylight  and  had 
a  cup  of  coffee.  Now  they  were  marching  in  a 
warm  early  dawn.  The  uneasy  dread  that 
slept  always  in  the  bottom  of  Jimmie 's  mind 
stirred  and  woke,  and  laid  a  cold  grip  on  him. 

[55] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

Was  he  going  to  be  afraid  ?  Would  he  run,  in 
spite  of  all  he  could  do,  as  men  had  run  whom 
he  had  heard  of,  when  shells  fell?  Rifle-fire, 
yes;  that  was  clean  killing.  Bayonets — Jim- 
mie  laughed.  There  was  a  young  lieutenant 
who  had  trained  Jimmie  and  the  rest  until 
they  were  bayonet  specialists. 

"We  eat  bayonets,  we-uns,"  Strickland 
stated.  "We-uns  won't  get  to  be  killed  by  no 
bayonet." 

The  lieutenant  was  proud  of  the  men  he 
made,  for  every  mother's  son  of  them  could 
face  a  bayonet  without  flinching.  Jimmie 
laughed  as  he  thought  of  German  bayonets. 
No  machine-made  soldiers  could  face  Pea 
cock  and  his  Americans. 

"You'll  scare  the  life  out  of  anything  you 
charge,"  their  "louey"  had  told  them  vain- 
gloriously,  and  they  believed  him,  vain-glori 
ous,  too. 

Would  his  first  action  come  like  that  ?  Jim 
mie  wondered.  He  prayed  it  might.  He  be 
lieved  he  could  race  at  the  enemy  with  that 

[56] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

accustomed  bright  tiling  plunging  ahead.  He 
might  go  back  and  give  a  good  account  to  the 
photograph  at  home,  maybe,  of  such  a  fight. 
The  Colonel's  own  sort  of  fight,  too.  But 
something  turned  numb  inside,  a  manner  of 
seasickness  crawled  over  him  as  he  thought 
of  the  serene,  singing  peril  of  shells,  of  his 
helplessness  under  them.  No  fighting  back, 
no  man's  chance.  Meantime  they  marched. 

"Dog-goned  if  we  won't  stall  in  a  minute," 
growled  Higgins,  the  blond  boy,  at  his  side. 
"We're  hittin'  on  three." 

Jimmie  was  conscious  of  comfort  that  an 
other  man  was  nervous.  There  was  a  whine 
somewhere;  he  threw  up  his  head. 

"A  shell,  my  son,"  explained  Egan. 

Jimmie  tried  to  see  the  path  of  the  whine, 
and  somebody  laughed.  "You'll  hear  'em 
again,"  a  voice  spoke. 

"Will  I  run?"  Jimmie  considered.  "I 
didn't  run  this  time;  that's  something." 

They  began  to  fall  closer;  one  heard  the 
explosion  after  the  whine.  Jimmie  turned  and 

[57] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

looked  at  a  cloud  of  earth  and  smoke  and 
rocks,  perhaps  five  hundred  yards  off.  Hig- 
gins's  fair  head  was  bent  back  and  he  stared 
up.  An  aeroplane  was  over  them. 

"It's  a  Boche,"  some  one  said.  "He's  giving 
his  battery  our  range.'* 

They  fell  to  marching  at  quick  step. 

"I  haven't  run  yet."  Jimmie  formed  the 
words  with  gray  lips.  And  then  they  were  in 
a  communication  trench. 

The  boy  never  remembered  by  just  what 
steps  the  event  arrived,  for  the  rest  of  that 
morning  stayed  in  his  mind  as  a  manner  of 
thunderous  blur,  undefined,  full  of  rolling 
noises,  cut  across  by  sharp  sentences,  orders 
given  and  obeyed.  A  moment  came  when  vol 
unteers  were  called  for.  A  French  detachment 
in  attacking  had  overrun  its  objective  and 
was  cut  off  somewhere  in  front,  in  danger  of 
being  shelled  by  American  guns.  Men  were 
needed  to  penetrate  the  heavy  barrage  be 
tween,  and  to  send  word  back  of  the  where 
abouts  of  the  French. 

[581 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

Jimmie,  half  of  him  wondering  if  the  other 
half  were  mad,  volunteered.  And  the  mad 
half  carried  him  forward,  quiet  enough  out 
side,  stunned  and  vague  inside,  moving 
shoulder  to  shoulder  with  Egan,  to  the  place 
of  terror.  He  was  petrified  with  fear,  but 
there  seemed  no  other  way.  He  had  given  a 
promise  to  do  his  best !  This  was  his  best.  Was 
there  any  way  to  break  a  promise  ?  To  a  photo 
graph  ?  To  a  mighty,  unfrightened  personality  ? 

The  men  came  toward  a  wall  of  smoke 
slashed  with  flashes  of  lightning,  which 
seemed  to  tear  the  wall  to  pieces  before  it 
constantly  closed  in  smoke  again.  The  noises 
were  terrific  beyond  what  any  human  who 
had  not  heard  them  could  dream.  A  thunder 
of  background  was  the  sum  total  of  all  the 
guns  not  close  by;  three  kinds  of  punctuation 
there  were  to  this  pervading  sound — first, 
the  tearing  of  the  smaller  shells  near;  then 
the  spaced,  deep  concussion  of  exploding 
heavies;  then  the  rattling  bursts  of  machine- 
guns  some  distance  off.  All  this  made  a  com- 

[59] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

petent  hell.  Jimmie  stood  a  moment  regard 
ing  this  hell.  It  awaited  him.  Could  he  pick  a 
path?  There  was  none;  the  last  tempest  of 
shells  wiped  out  the  quiet  spots  of  the  tempest 
before.  The  only  way  was  direct  into  it. 

Suddenly  something  happened  to  his  stom 
ach.  It  had  come — the  limit.  He  was  going  to 
run.  With  a  harsh,  loud  cry  the  last  drop  of 
courage  in  him  put  up  its  last  struggle.  For 
he  did  not  turn,  though  he  dropped  flat  on 
his  face.  He  was  aware  of  Egan  kneeling  be 
side  him;  he  saw  the  whirl  of  black  hair  in 
the  back  of  Egan's  neck.  Jimmie  cried  out: 
"I'm  going  to  run,  Egan;  I'm  afraid." 
The  man  turned  to  him  with  a  look  that 
Jimmie  never  forgot.  Egan  wasn't  thinking 
about  Egan  at  all;  as  plain  as  print  Jimmie 
read  in  his  eyes — an  illumination  of  unselfish 
ness — that  what  he  was  thinking  was  how  he 
might  quickest  save  his  friend  from  disgrace. 
What  master  word  might  give  Jimmie  cour 
age  out  of  utter  funk  to  do  his  duty?  With 
Egan's  own  grim  smile  the  word  came: 
[601 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

"F'r  the  Colonel's  sake,  son  —  'tis  f'r 
Teddy.  Onwidye!" 

Jimmie  forgot  what  came  after.  The  next 
thing  he  knew  he  was  lying  in  white  sheets, 
and  a  cheerful  voice  was  saying:  "Take  this, 
buddy,  for  sister." 

The  boy  came  straying  back  to  a  knowledge 
of  things.  His  first  sensation  was  the  luxuri- 
ousness  of  a  bed,  cleanness;  then  gentle, 
capable  hands,  homelike  tones  of  an  Amer 
ican  woman.  Orderlies  in  uniform  stepped 
softly;  the  hush  of  a  long  quiet  room  wrapped 
his  spirit  like  a  robe  of  healing.  Then  sharply, 
as  if  a  blade  of  flame  had  stabbed  into  him,  he 
remembered.  The  terrified  crossing  toward 
the  zone  of  the  barrage  he  remembered,  and 
the  supreme  moment  when  his  will  had 
turned  to  water,  and  he  had  seen  Egan's  face 
and  cried  to  it:  " I'm  going  to  run;  I'm  afraid  " 
— these  things  he  remembered.  Then  Egan's 
puzzled,  anxious  look,  his  words  like  a  com 
mand:  "Tis  f'r  Teddy,  son.  On  wid  ye!" 
That  was  all. 

[611 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

Jimmie,  lying  in  his  hospital  bed,  very  high 
yet  in  temperature,  very  low  in  pulse,  saw 
only  one  conclusion  to  his  memories.  Egan's 
appeal  to  his  hero-worship  of  Roosevelt  had 
failed.  Either  he  had  run  away  and  got 
wounded,  or  else  he  had  fainted  from  fear. 
He  had  broken  the  promise  which  had  been 
his  oriflamme.  One  way  or  the  other  he  was  a 
deserter  and  had  earned  a  firing-squad  with 
his  back  against  a  wall.  Likely  he  would  get 
it.  When  they  had  cured  him  so  he  could 
stand  up  to  be  shot.  And  here  was  this  dear 
American  girl  with  her  hand  on  his  pulse  and 
loving-kindness  in  her  eyes,  bending  over  him 
as  if  his  life  were  worth  saving. 

"Be  a  good  boy  and  stop  thinking,  buddy," 
she  spoke.  "You  got  yours  gloriously  and 
we're  mighty  proud  of  you.  You  take  this 
sugar  pill  for  sister,  and  have  a  nap." 

Jimmie  looked  away,  sick  at  heart.  What 
did  she  know  about  it  ?  They  said  that  to  all 
the  wounded,  he  didn't  doubt.  For  that  mat 
ter,  all  of  them  deserved  it.  Except  himself. 

[621 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

He  had  never  heard  of  an  American  who  was 
yellow.  Except  himself.  The  blade  of  flame 
and  shame  twisted  and  he  turned  to  the  wall. 
And,  turning,  ran  into  something  in  his  body 
as  sharp  almost  as  mental  anguish. 

"What's  the  matter  with  my  leg,"  he  de 
manded,  turning  back. 

"We're  going  to  save  that  blessed  leg,"  the 
nurse  answered  with  a  steady  gentleness  al 
most,  Jimmie  thought,  angelic.  Her  hand 
dropped  cool  in  his.  "You'll  be  a  bit  lame, 
buddy,  but  it's  a  miracle  you'll  have  a  leg  at 
all.  A  shell  wound.  And  you  picked  up  some 
shell-shock,  too.  But  that's  all  right.  You'll 
beat  that.  And  those  legs  did  enough  one 
morning  to  give  'em  a  right  to  go  slow  for  ten 
lifetimes.  You  go  to  sleep,  buddy,"  she 
whispered  motherly.  "Don't  think  about  it, 
but  just  rest  content  that  you're  one  of  our 
heroes  and  we're  all  loving  you." 

Was  the  girl  dreaming?  "One  of  OUT 
heroes."  A  coward,  a  deserter. 

By  virtue  of  the  sugar  pill  and  exhaustion 

[63] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

he  slept  again  for  hours.  It  was  nearly  night 
when  he  woke.  The  hospital  was  an  old 
French  chateau,  and  the  large  drawing-room, 
where  he  lay,  was  now  filled  with  white  beds, 
and  the  doors  were  open  into  a  wide  hall,  and 
across  it  was  another  huge  room  and  more 
white  beds.  As  he  took  in,  with  heavy  eyes, 
this  first  general  impression  something  hap 
pened. 

Shaded  electric  lamps  were  lighted  on 
tables,  but  the  sunset  still  flowed  through 
western  windows,  and  in  the  strange  double 
light  a  girl  in  the  white  cap  and  dress  of  a 
Red  Cross  nurse  came  into  his  vision,  sunset- 
haloed,  standing  in  the  hall.  She  looked  first 
into  the  hushed  room  where  Jimmie  lay  and 
then  into  the  hushed  room  across,  then  in 
stantly  the  long  halls  and  the  great  chambers 
crowded  with  suffering  boys  were  filled  with 
glorious  sound.  Anita  Eddy's  was  a  very 
lovely  voice,  and  she  had  sent  up  a  little 
prayer,  standing  there,  that  she  might  sing 
better  than  ever  in  her  life  for  these  lads  who 

[64] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

had  given  so  much.  It  was  angels'  music  that 
Jimmie  heard. 

"Nothing  too  emotional,"  the  doctor  had 
warned  her,  and  the  first  thing  was  the  gay 
notes  of  the  "Madelon": 

"Pour  le  repos,  le  plaisir  du  militaire 
II  est  la-bas,  a  deux  pas  de  la  foret, 
Une  maison,  aux  murs  tous  couverts  de  lierre, 
Au  "Tour-du-Roux,'  c'est  le  nom  de  cabaret." 

They  had  all  heard  their  friends  the  poilus 
sing  that — the  marching  song  of  the  Blue 
Devils,  the  Alpine  Chasseurs,  and  from  here 
and  there,  and  then  from  almost  all  over  the 
big  rooms,  young  heads  lifted  from  pillows, 
and  deep,  tired  young  voices  joined  the  air 
of  the  chorus: 

"La  Madelon  pour  nous  n'est  pas  severe, 
Quand  on  lui  prend  la  taille  ou  la  menton. 
Elle  rit;  c'est  tout  le  mal  qu'elle  sait  faire. 
Madelon  !  Madelon  !  Madelon ! " 

"Might  I  risk  'The  Long,  Long  Trail'?" 
the  girl  asked  when  she  had   sung    "Over 
[65] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

There"  and  a  bit  or  two  of   ragtime   and 
"Annie  Laurie." 

"Yes,  to  finish,"  the  doctor  agreed. 

"There's  a  long,  long  trail  a-winding 
Into  the  land  of  my  dreams, 
Where  the  nightingales  are  singing 
And  the  white  moon  beams." 

The  beautiful  voice  sent  the  familiar  ah* 
floating  through  the  rooms  where  the  wounded 
men  lay,  and  into  the  chorus,  when  it  came, 
from  all  over  floated  weak,  deep  notes.  Al 
most  every  soldier  there  lifted  his  head  from 
his  pillow  a  little  and  joined  the  chorus. 
From  all  the  rooms  down  the  long  corridor 
one  heard  the  voices,  some  of  them  very 
faint  voices.  And  the  girl's  voice,  clear  and 
sure  and  unearthly  sweet,  carried  them  all, 
and  lifted  through  them.  Almost  every  sol 
dier  there  sang,  but  not  Jimmie.  The  knife 
in  him  cut  too  sharp;  he  knew  himself  too  low 
a  thing  to  sing  with  a  company  of  men  who 
had  served  the  flag  honorably.  At  that  mo- 
[66] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

ment  Jimmie  would  have  given  the  rest  of 
his  life  for  a  chance  to  throw  it  away  fighting. 
The  wonderful  voice  stopped,  the  girl  had 
gone,  and  Jimmie's  gaze  wandered  to  the 
window  at  the  foot  of  his  bed,  which  gave  on 
the  park.  It  was  Saturday  night  and  out 
there  it  was  gay.  The  summer  evenings  were 
long  and  the  parties  early.  There  was  a 
dance  already  going  on  in  a  building  in  the 
grounds  outside  and  one  could  see  it  through 
the  windows.  Between  times  the  dancers 
passed  into  the  warm  night.  Under  the  elec 
tric  lights  of  the  park  one  could  distinguish 
each  person,  could  pick  out  uniforms  and 
faces.  Never,  the  boy  thought  idly,  was  a 
fancy-dress  ball  as  wonderful,  as  stirring  as 
this.  Doctors  of  the  hospitals  were  there; 
there  were  a  few  French  officers  in  their 
horizon  blue;  there  were  Americans  of  sorts, 
single  bars  of  lieutenants  and  double  bars  of 
captains  on  brown  uniform  shoulders,  and  a 
leaf  or  two  of  a  major  flashing  past;  there 
was  an  Italian  in  his  field-gray  cape;  there 
[67] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

was  a  Belgian  with  his  tasselled  cap;  there 
were  Red  Cross  canteen  workers  in  their 
dark,  trim  clothes;  and  in  and  out  of  these 
flashed  the  white  uniform  of  the  nurses  with 
their  white  caps  and  the  scarlet  cross  over 
their  brows.  And,  behold !  there  was  an 
American  colonel  with  his  arm  in  a  sling. 
Jimmie  noticed  the  silver  eagles  on  his  shoul 
der;  he  stood  in  the  glare  of  a  swinging  elec 
tric  light  and  he  was  talking  to  the  doctor 
whom  Jimmie  knew,  and  with  them  was — 
why,  yes,  it  was  Jimmie's  own  "sister,"  the 
nurse  who  was  an  angel.  He  saw  her  smile 
upward  toward  the  colonel — lucky  colonel. 
What  was  that  girl  saying  to  that  officer 
which  pleased  her  so? 

The  colonel  moved  as  he  smiled  back,  and 
Jimmie,  startled,  realized  that  it  was  his  own 
colonel — old  Dutch  Cleanser  they  called 
him  for  his  fanatic  tidiness.  What  the  dickens 
was  he  doing  here?  Oh — wounded,  of  course 
—the  sling.  With  that,  all  at  once,  the  boy's 
small  strength  was  at  an  end,  and  with  it  his 
[68] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

interest;  the  world  dropped  away;  he  fell 
asleep. 

Next  morning  when  he  opened  his  eyes  it 
was  to  meet  the  eyes  of  his  "sister"  gazing 
down  at  him  with  a  particularly  radiant  smile. 

"Corporal  Blair,  you're  a  lazy  man.  I 
didn't  know  but  I'd  have  to  wake  you. 
There's  something  doing  in  this  ward  to-day. 
Something  mighty  nice;  and  you're  necessary 
to  the  party." 

Jimmie  smiled  back  spontaneously  out  of 
his  youth;  he  was  not  yet  quite  awake  enough 
to  have  remembered.  Then  the  accustomed 
stab  came. 

"Not  likely  I'm  necessary  to  anything 
nice,"  he  brought  out  slowly,  with  a  shy 
broken-heartedness  which  went  to  the  girl's 
soul. 

She  nodded  at  him.  "After  this  morning 
you'll  never  talk  that  way  again.  Now  be  a 
good  boy  and  let  me  get  you  dolled  up.  We 
must  look  our  prettiest.  See  my  cap?  My 
best  one — in  honor." 

[69] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

What  was  she  running  on  about?  Jimmie 
didn't  know  or  care  very  much.  Jollying  him 
along,  he  supposed.  Anyhow  she  was  a  dear; 
anything  she  wanted  would  go.  He  let  him 
self  be  washed  and  shaved  and  dressed  in 
fresh  pajamas,  and  watched  her  deft  hands  as 
she  put  clean  sheets  on  his  bed  and  propped 
him  on  immaculate  pillows.  About  then  an 
orderly  came  in. 

"They've  come,"  the  orderly  said.  "The 
doctor  wants  to  speak  to  the  nurse  first." 

Jimmie  was  mildly  surprised  at  the  bright 
ness  in  the  girl's  eyes.  She  put  her  hand  on 
his  newly  brushed  red  head. 

"Don't  you  dare  rumple  your  hair  till  I 
get  back." 

To  his  greater  surprise  she  bent  suddenly 
and  kissed  his  hand,  and  her  face  was  full  of 
emotion  as  she  lifted  it.  What  was  the  girl  up 
to  ?  But  Jimmie  was  languid,  and  misery  was 
tearing  at  his  mind;  he  did  not  follow  out  his 
wonder. 

Out  in  the  hall  the  nurse  threw  one  awed 
[70] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

glance  at  a  group  standing  near  the  door  of 
the  ward;  then  the  doctor  stepped  toward  her. 

"Miss  Gardiner,  you  told  me  last  night 
that  Corporal  Blair  believes  himself  to  have 
failed  in  his  duty  ?  " 

"Yes.  From  things  he's  said  I  know  he 
thinks  himself  disgraced." 

The  doctor  smiled.  "What  I'm  after  is  that 
it  might  be  dangerous  in  his  weak  state  to 
disillusion  him  in" — the  doctor's  eyes  trav 
elled  to  the  group  of  uniforms — "in  this  rather 
overpowering  way.  You  can  judge  for  the  lad 
better  than  I  can.  Would  the  shock  be  too 
much  ?  Had  you  better  tell  him  what's  going 
to  happen?" 

"No!"  The  head  in  its  best  cap  shook 
firmly.  "Why,  doctor,  if  a  man  had  a  ten- 
ton  load  of  lead  on  his  chest,  would  you  be 
afraid  of  the  shock  to  him  of  lifting  it  off? 
Never.  I  wouldn't  for  worlds  spoil  the  joy  of 
that  boy  of  hearing  the  glorious  thing  in 
that" — she  flashed  a  quick  glance  at  the  uni 
forms  waiting — "that  glorious  way." 
[71] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

The  doctor  turned.  "Go  to  your  patient, 
Miss  Gardiner." 

Jimmie,  wondering  weakly  why  the  dick 
ens  his  "sister,"  the  one  entity  in  the  world 
which  brought  any  comfort,  was  gone  so  long, 
beheld  her  in  the  doorway,  so  flushed  and 
breathless  a  sister  for  all  her  self-control  that 
it  startled  him.  She  came  quickly  and  put  a 
hand  on  his  shining  red  hair  as  his  mother 
might  have  done. 

"Mr.  Blair,"  she  said,  leaning  to  him — not 
"buddy"  any  more — "Mr.  Blair,  something 
wonderful  and  beautiful  is  going  to  happen. 
Get  your  mind  ready  to  be  prouder  and  hap 
pier  than  you  ever  were  in  your  life." 

Jimmie  stared  at  her.  Proud — he?  Happy 
— he?  And  with  that  there  was  a  stir  at  the 
door  and  a  group  of  officers  came  in,  and  his 
heart  gave  a  leap  as  his  eyes,  astounded,  real 
ized  that  the  figure  leading  the  others,  this 
figure  of  the  horizon-blue  uniform,  with  one 
sleeve  pinned  flat,  was  no  other  than  General 
Gouraud.  Behind  him  followed  close  two  or 

[72] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

three  staff  officers  and  the  doctor  and — why, 
it  was  old  Dutch  Cleanser,  Colonel  Fairfield 
—his  own  colonel.  How  had  the  old  boy  got 
that  wounded  arm?  What  was  this  distin 
guished  lot  doing  here?  All  over  the  ward 
weak  heads  lifted,  men  pulled  themselves  up 
on  their  pillows,  stared  at  the  group  entering; 
there  was  a  sudden  dramatic  stir  and  silence 
everywhere. 

Jimmie's  face  was  grim  as  he  gazed  at  his 
own  colonel,  and  his  heart  beat  painfully  with 
shame.  He  longed  to  cover  up  his  poor  head 
with  the  sheet;  but  he  gazed,  pale  and  grim. 

What  in  heaven's  name  was  this?  They 
were  heading  toward  him — to  his  bed.  With 
that  they  stood  about  him,  close  to  him,  and 
the  general,  the  stern  soldier  whom  his  men 
adored  to  fanaticism,  was  smiling  down  at 
him  with  eyes  as  iatherly  as  Roosevelt's  eyes 
might  have  been  to  a  sick  and  wounded  son. 
He  was  speaking;  his  gruff  tones,  too,  made 
the  boy  think  of  his  hero.  What — WHAT — 
was  General  Gouraud  saying?  There  was 
[731 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

some  hideous  slip  here.  Jimmie's  stricken 
heart  jumped  with  horror  as  he  heard  words 
in  the  great  soldier's  voice.  "Heroism — con 
spicuous  daring — France  thanks  you —  "  Jim- 
mie  tossed  his  red  locks  back,  to  meet  the 
eyes  of  his  nurse. 

"For  the  love  of  Mike — stop  *em,"  he  cried. 
Jimmie  spoke  French,  but  he  could  not  speak 
this  thing  to  General  Gouraud  in  any  lan 
guage.  "Tell  'em  it's  a  mistake.  It's  some 
other  fellow.  I'm  not  the  one.  Tell  'em — I'm 
a — coward."  He  brought  out  the  word  des 
perately,  in  a  manner  of  sob.  Utter  truth 
must  be  told  here,  though  it  bled  his  life  out 
to  tell  it.  No  more  slacking — at  least  that  pic 
ture  at  home  should  not  look  contempt  at 
him  for  that.  "Stop  'em." 

And  the  nurse,  Jimmie's  dear  "sister," 
looked  up  at  the  one-armed  general  and 
spoke  a  few  rapid  words.  Jimmie  gave  a 
shivering  sigh.  Now  they  would  go  and  leave 
him  quietly  to  fight  his  shame.  What,  in 
heaven's  name,  was  the  general  doing  now? 

[74] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

Kneeling  by  the  hospital  bed,  holding  the 
boy's  skeleton  hand  in  his  one  brown  one, 
and  speaking  slowly  in  his  own  dramatic 
tongue. 

"It  is  for  me  to  tell  you,  then,  my  so  brave 
American  soldier,  that  you  are  no  coward 
but  a  hero.  One  has  guessed  that  the  memory 
has  gone — because  of  the  wound  and  the 
shell-shock — of  what  you  did.  I,  your  gen 
eral,  will  then  be  your  memory.  Volunteers 
were  called  for  to  get  into  contact  with  a 
French  unit,  separated  and  surrounded  by 
enemy  troops.  It  was  necessary  to  localize 
their  position,  not  only  in  order  to  save 
them  but  also  in  order  that  their  own  and 
American  artillery  should  not  unknowingly 
fire  upon  them.  Each  volunteer  was  to  carry 
forward  strapped  to  his  back  a  field  telephone 
and  reel  of  wire,  laying  it  as  he  ran;  also  an 
arranged  signal  for  our  aeroplanes  of  the  con 
tact  patrol.  The  position  of  this  surrounded 
unit  was  not  defined  except  that  to  reach  it  a 
runner  must  traverse  a  barrage  of  interdic- 
[75] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

diction  of  a  heaviness  most  extraordinary. 
You  volunteered  for  this  service." 

Jimmie,  very  pale  and  shaking,  very  com 
forted,  in  spite  of  inner  convictions,  by  that 
strong  hand  around  his  twitching  fingers, 
nodded. 

"Voila!  That  he  remembers,"  spoke  the 
General  smiling.  "My  brave  soldier!  But 
there  is  more  to  recount  before  he  takes  our 
word  for  his  courage,  this  so  stubborn  Amer 
ican  boy.  You  advanced,  the  volunteers,  to 
the  tir  de  barrage,  and  at  what  might  be  called 
the  beginning  of  the  danger  zone,  you  stum 
bled  and  fell." 

"I  lay  down,"  stated  Jimmie  distinctly. 
"I  was  afraid." 

General  Gouraud  chuckled.  "It  is  a  reluc 
tant  hero,  one  sees,"  he  commented.  And 
went  on.  "You  fell.  Corporal  Egan  was  by 
your  side.  A  word  passed  between  you,  and 
you  both  sprang  up  and  pressed  forward  into 
the  barrage  fire.  Corporal  Egan  fell  at 

once " 

[76] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

"Egan  dead?"  Jimmie's  voice  was  an 
guished,  but  the  general  reassured  him. 

"Not  dead,  indeed.  Living  and  all  but  well 
at  this  moment.  Yet  he  was  disabled  at  that 
time.  The  other  volunteers  were  killed,  so 
that  you  alone  won  through;  also,  by  some 
miracle,  with  the  telephone  wire  uncut;  also, 
you  delivered  your  message.  You  were  found 
to  be  badly  wounded  in  the  leg  and  to  be 
suffering  from  shell-shock.  You  had  crawled 
on  all  fours — a  quatre  pattes — for  two  hun 
dred  yards.  Also,  you  did  not  lighten  your 
passage  by  dropping  the  reel  of  great  heavi 
ness,  as  one  might.  At  the  end  you  became 
unconscious,  and  so  remained  till  yesterday. 
You  saved  our  troops  and  le  bon  Dieu  saved 
you  for  that  service.  Will  you  now,  my  so 
obstinate  hero,  consent  to  receive  the  thanks 
which  France  sends  you,  with  the  Medaille 
Militaire?" 

Jimmie  was  aware  of  a  rough  face  touching 
him  first  on  one  cheek  and  then  on  the  other, 
and  while  the  room  swam  around  he  knew 
[77] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

that  something  heavy  on  a  faded-looking  yel- 
low-and-green  ribbon  was  being  pinned  on  his 
pajama  jacket.  There  were  no  definite  edges 
to  anything;  he  could  not  tell  if  he  spoke  or 
what  he  said,  but  the  pageant  of  uniforms, 
that  glorious  figure  with  the  empty  sleeve, 
old  Dutch  Cleanser,  and  the  rest  somehow 
were  gone.  He  was  alone  with  "sister,"  and 
she  was  smoothing  his  hair  rather  steadily, 
while  he  tried  to  find  that  fresh  handkerchief 
of  earlier  in  the  morning  and  kept  on  repeat 
ing  to  himself:  "Blamed  baby — oh,  blamed 
baby!" 

An  orchestra  was  playing  thundering 
hallelujahs  under  the  pajama  jacket,  under 
the  glory  of  that  sickly-colored  ribbon.  And 
a  name  was  the  burden  of  the  great  music. 

"Roosevelt!  He  saved  me.  Oh,  his  name 
saved  me!  Egan  said  it  and  I  went  on.  I 
kept  my  promise  to  the  Colonel,  and  he  put 
me  through!"  Unphrased,  wordless,  such 
was  the  cantata  of  Jimmie's  soul. 

The  nurse  stopped  smoothing  his  red  head 
[78] 


f 

HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

and  looked  down  at  him  with  a  queer  ex 
pression  he  had  not  seen  before  in  her  brown 
eyes. 

"Now  you'll  get  well  in  five  minutes  and 
leave  us,"  said  the  nurse. 

And  why  in  thunder,  when  she'd  sat  up 
nights  and  slaved  daytimes  to  make  him 
well,  should  she  look  wistful  and  sorry  ? 

There  are  always  automobiles  standing  at 
the  side  of  the  road  which  runs  past  the 
Oyster  Bay  cemetery.  The  great  American 
who  sleeps  there,  under  the  trees  of  that 
peaceful  hillside,  is  never  without  homage  of 
Americans.  On  a  soft  April  morning  of  1919 
when  a  line  of  five  or  six  cars  was  drawn  up 
at  the  edge  of  the  road  with  its  wide  grass 
border,  yet  another  car  stopped,  and  from  it 
stepped  down  a  spectacled  young  man  in 
uniform  who  limped.  He  was  pale,  and  as  he 
turned,  after  a  moment's  speech  with  his 
chauffeur,  in  the  direction  which  the  chauf 
feur  had  pointed  out,  he  drew  the  overseas 
[79] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

cap  from  his  head  and  the  light  shone  on 
thick  red  hair.  The  MSdaille  Militaire,  the 
highest  honor  in  the  gift  of  France,  to  be  won 
only  by  enlisted  men  and  by  general  officers 
— but  by  no  rank  between — hung  on  the 
breast  of  his  blouse.  As  he  walked,  slowly 
enough,  for  he  was  lame  and  yet  weak  from 
wounds,  and  shell-shock  makes  a  slow  recov 
ery,  one  or  two  quiet  groups  of  people,  coming 
back  to  their  cars  from  Roosevelt's  grave, 
looked  at  him,  at  the  wound-stripe  on  his 
right  sleeve,  and  then  back  tenderly  to  his 
young,  worn  face.  In  the  boy's  look  was  a 
quality  which  marked  him  as  different  from 
the  ordinary  reverent  visitor.  This  gaunt, 
gray-faced  youngster  had  an  air  of  some 
thing  which  he  meant  to  do.  He  stood  apart 
quietly  when  he  reached  the  spot  under  the 
trees,  where  the  shadows  of  the  dimly  sun 
lit  spring  morning  swept  softly  back  and 
forth,  back  and  forth,  over  all  that  was  left 
of  a  strong  body,  the  house  of  a  strong  soul. 
"Earth  to  earth;  ashes  to  ashes."  Yet 

[80] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

Theodore  Roosevelt's  triumphant  personality 
triumphed  yet.  "O,  grave,  where  is  thy 
victory  ?  "  Jimmie  considered  the  words  as  he 
stood  with  bowed,  bared  head,  and  held  his 
overseas  cap  crushed  against  his  breast,  as 
Roosevelt  had  held  his  hat  crushed  that  day 
when  the  division  marched  up  the  avenue 
and  those  keen  eyes,  now  forever  closed,  had 
gazed  out  at  America's  soldiers  with  a  rap 
ture  of  tenderness  and  pride.  "O,  grave, 
where  is  thy  victory?" 

For  the  spirit  of  the  place  was  inspiration. 
From  this  place,  as  long  as  America  lasted, 
Americans  must  go  with  a  new  breath  of 
consecration  to  America;  with  a  desire  to 
serve  the  land  with  one's  might,  as  Roose 
velt  would  have  it  served. 

"His  soul  goes  marching  on,"  whispered 
Jimmie,  and  remembered  how  that  great  soul 
had  marched  with  himself  through  hardship 
and  weariness  in  France,  and  had  swept  him 
by  sheer  power  of  a  name  through  battle- 
flame  and  shell-fire. 

[81] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

Near  this  place  might  one  day  rise,  the  boy 
dreamed,  a  mighty  flagstaff,  the  highest  in 
the  world  it  should  be,  as  fitted  the  tribute 
of  a  great  nation  to  its  greatest  son.  And  from 
this  should  float  always,  into  the  ages  to 
come,  the  flag  for  which  Theodore  Roosevelt 
had  spent  himself;  the  flag  which  stood  to 
him  and  stands  to  us  for  the  last  word  in  the 
cause  which  "shall  not  fail,  for  it  is  the  cause 
of  humanity." 

People  came  and  went;  the  minutes  massed 
to  hours  as  the  lame  soldier  stood  waiting. 
He  was  only  twenty-four  hours  off  the  hos 
pital-ship  on  which  he  had  sailed  ten  days 
ago  from  St.  Nazaire,  just  out  of  the  Savenay 
hospital.  There  had  been  three  things  all  the 
way  across  the  Atlantic  which  had  filled  his 
mind  and  stood  out  as  the  beginning  of  his 
new  life  at  home.  His  mother,  and  then  his 
people;  less  sharply  defined,  yet  guarded 
happily,  a  name  and  address  near  New  York, 
the  name  and  address  of  the  nurse  who  was 
an  angel !  Beside  these  two  was  the  thing 

[82] 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

which  he  was  doing  to-day.  Would  these  ever- 
coming  people  never  go? 

At  last  for  a  space  of  time  Jimmie  stood 
alone  in  the  hushed,  bright  place;  all  the 
quiet  footsteps  had  gone  away  over  the 
gravel;  the  wind  whispered  unhurried  mem 
ories  through  the  trees,  memories  of  a  small 
boy  fishing  and  of  a  personage  who  had  played 
and  fished  and  talked  with  him  through  an 
unforgotten  hour;  memories  of  light  feet 
marching  in  a  great  rhythm  up  the  avenue, 
and  of  a  face  looking  down  at  them — a  sec 
ond's  glance  to  be  remembered  for  a  life 
time. 

Jimmie  came  forward  with  his  halting 
step  and  stood  by  the  grave.  He  dropped  his 
brown  cap  on  the  earth,  and  with  stumbling 
fingers  unpinned  his  most  precious  possession, 
the  Medaille  Militaire,  and  knelt  and  laid  it 
above  where  Roosevelt's  heart  might  have 
been. 

"It's  the  best  thing  I  own.  It's  yours  any 
how,"  he  whispered.  "I  kept  my  promise, 

[831 


HIS  SOUL  GOES  MARCHING  ON 

Colonel.'*  A  moment  he  bent  his  head  and  a 
tear  fell  on  the  dim  yellow-and-green  ribbon 
of  the  medal  lying  among  flowers. 

Then  Jimmie  picked  up  his  cap  and  went 
back  under  the  trees  to  his  taxi,  no  badge  of 
honor  on  his  breast  now,  limping  and  gaunt 
and  very  tired,  but  with  a  deep  contentment 
in  him  to  be  one  of  the  Americans  who  had 
not  failed  the  cause  which  was  the  cause  of 
humanity. 


84 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
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